


Redbeard

by paperback92



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Minor Character Death, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft's Meddling, Protective John, Redbeard - Freeform, Repressed Memories, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, The Other Holmes - Freeform, Trauma, description of gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 21:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6536812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperback92/pseuds/paperback92
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they returned that afternoon with Chinese take away and thumbs, a photo sat on the kitchen table. It was a far cry from the gory photos that been in the flat the past four days. Sherlock picked it up and examined it. He said nothing but pocketed it with a small smile. </p>
<p>John saw the photo days later. It sat, framed, on the mantel above the fire place looking as if it had always belonged there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redbeard

John Watson figured that he would eventually get used to getting kidnapped. He assumed that one day he would just accept that being snatched off the streets by one person or another was his life now. However, even after years of being abducted, he somehow still found himself a little surprised each time a sleek black car glided up to the kerb beside him.

Perhaps it was because there was a part of him that remembered that it wasn’t proper for people to be kidnapped and propositioned to spy on their flat mates. Or perhaps it just annoyed him that Mycroft still felt he was too important to just ring John up to speak to him. 

Up until that point, Sherlock had been in a pleasant mood. Other than the row that they had that morning regarding the severed head in the fridge, but now John heard him huff with indignation beside him.

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

Sherlock yanked the car door open and glared at Her-Name-Isn’t-Actually-Anthea. “What does he want now? I’m busy!”

Not-Anthea didn’t seem fazed by Sherlock’s yelling. In fact, she didn’t even look up from her phone. “I believe it’s of a social nature.” 

“A social call?” Sherlock scoffed. “Unlikely. I haven’t got any cakes for him, if that’s what he’s hoping for.” 

Not-Anthea glanced up at them, one eyebrow raised in amusement but with an underlining hint of warning. “I’m sure the sooner you get this over with, Mr. Holmes, the sooner you can get back to whatever you were doing.” 

Sherlock actually seemed to consider that and slid into the car. John, for his part, stayed on the kerb willing to be the one to put up a fight.

“You know,” John said, to an unimpressed Not-Anetha. “Mycroft can just call. Does he know that? We have phones. If he wants to speak to us, he could give us a ring and we could set up a proper date?” 

Sherlock snorted and Not-Anetha gave him a painfully false cheery smile. “I’ll be sure to make a note of that for him.”

“Do that, please. This is getting old.” John paused then, as a thought came to him. “You know what? I think I’ll sit this one out.” Sherlock looked positivity stricken, as if John was sending up to the firing squad. 

“Really, John? John?” He cried out again, as John made a show of starting down the sidewalk again. Then John heard an exaggerated sigh before he got to the front of the car.

“Fine.” Sherlock sulked. “No more heads in the refrigerator.” 

John quickly hid the smile from his face before turning around. “And digits?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, thoroughly put out. “They will put kept in the appropriate containers.”

That was all John could hope for, really, and so he climbed into the seat beside Sherlock. John knew that he would have followed Sherlock regardless, pie crust promises about body parts or no. He realized that Sherlock knew this as well, by the way he glanced away from the car window to look at John, lips tugged up into a grin, before he remembered that he was supposed to be sulking. 

The car finally stopped in front of a large, official looking building that John hadn’t ever been to before. Not-Anetha dismissed the two from the car but didn't get out with them. They climbed up the steps in an excruciating slow fashion. It’s a childish move, trying to prolong the appointment that had been forced upon them. On the other hand, John felt that the whole situation was a bit childish. So it all evened out, he supposed.

They were almost to the top step when Sherlock placed a light hand on John’s arm, stopping them. He fumbled in the pocket of his coat for a moment then pulled out the small box with a triumphant flair. His pale eyes flickered up towards a window on the second floor and he made a show of lighting and smoking a cigarette. 

“Is that necessary?” John grumbled, ducking out of stream of smoke as Sherlock took another long drag.

“Yes.” He said, a mischievous glint lighting up his eyes, which John knew never led to anything good. “This will drive him crazy.” 

He dragged out the cigarette as long as he could then snubbed it out with the heel of his shoe. A shoe that John was sure that costs more than two month’s rent. They entered the building and Sherlock maneuvered throughout the hallways, leading John to an office on the second floor.

“John.” Mycroft greeted with a familiar tight smile when Sherlock pushed John into the room, trailing a few steps behind. Mycroft’s smile faltered when Sherlock finally entered, bringing the stench of smoke with him.

“Sherlock. You reek.” He said in a greeting, that was far less friendly then what John had received. 

Sherlock, who always took pleasure in a job well done, grinned and walked over to a large window that overlooked the city streets. Mycroft narrowed his eyes in brief annoyance towards his younger brother but gestured to a plush couch that was settled in the middle of the room. 

“Have a seat, John.”

John obligated but refused the drink that Mycroft held out to him. Sherlock sneered, barely turning away from his spot at the window. He reminded John of a cat that had claimed a spot of sunlight and soaked up its rays.

“A bit early for a drink, isn't it brother mine?”

“Not at all.” Mycroft replied easily, taking a sip from the tumbler in his hand. “Especially when there are things to discuss.” 

Sherlock made a face but Mycroft kept on undeterred. “How is work? Any interesting cases?”

“Read John’s blog if you’re so interested all of a sudden. In fact, we were working on an urgent case before you interrupted us. So you can explain to poor Mrs. Dawson why her husband’s killer won’t be caught.” 

That was a lie. They were actually on their way to Bart’s to collect some thumbs from Molly. But John didn’t say anything and either did Mycroft. Although John is convinced that the older man knows the story isn’t true as well. 

His attempts at small talk squished, he turned to John. “What do you know about trauma, John?”

“Not much.” John admitted, startled by the sudden change of topic. 

Mycroft nodded once and perched on the large desk. His eyes flickered between John and Sherlock, the latter still stood unmoved at the window, and continued speaking. 

“It’s always fascinated me what the brain will do it protect itself. When something happens, that is just too horrifying to process, the mind will go to great lengths to rationalize an event.” He uncrossed his long legs and inclined his head towards John. He waved his hand around airily. “You should know a little about it, John. Psychosomatic limp and all.”

John shifted, uncomfortable at being the center of Mycroft’s security, and Sherlock turned just enough to catch his eye. 

“You don’t have to comment on that.” 

“No, it’s fine.” John said, shifting again, as if he could squirm enough that he would escape out from under the eldest Holmes’ attention. 

“You’re right.” He addressed to Mycroft, who replied with a haughtily raised eyebrow. Sherlock shuffled his feet, still turned enough to hold John’s gaze but keeping his back to his brother. 

“When I got shot, the solider next to me, he was a mate of mine actually, his leg was blown off. I remember looking down and seeing it.” John paused and ran a hand thru his hair. “There were chucks of it everywhere, all over me, all over the ground. I had been convinced that it was my leg. Even in the hospital, I’d wake up and think it was gone. Took weeks to get over it. Even longer to get rid of the limp.” He finished with a shrug. 

Sherlock blinked then turned back fully to the window. “What is the point of this, Mycroft?” He droned. “You’ve summoned us here to give us a psychology lecture?”

“No.” Mycroft said. “Just proofing a point. Showing that it’s a common thing that can happen to any brain.” He pushed off from his perch and walked over to the decanter of scotch that sat on a side table. “Didn’t you have a client like that once, Sherlock?”

Sherlock whirled around from the window, his coat tails flaring, caught up in his anger. “Henry Knight? Is this pay back for nicking your Baskerville ID?”

Mycroft sighed, the type that is commonly used when dealing with petulant children. “Of course not, Sherlock.” The older man handed a glass of the amber liquor to John, who was too caught up looking between the brothers to refuse. “Have you told John about Redbeard?”

Sherlock froze. His long body tensed, muscles held so taunt that John’s own muscles ached watching him. He blinked once then his face twisted into another sneer, this one harsher then the last. “I am not a child.” 

As confused as John was about the confrontation, Mycroft was the complete opposite. He calmly took a sip from the tumbler in his hand. At ease as if they were discussing the weather. “Did I say you were? I only asked a question.” 

Sherlock glared at his brother and only turning away when John spoke up. “Sorry? Redbeard?” He looked between the two men. “What’s a Redbeard?”

Sherlock’s shoulders stayed painfully stiff. “Redbeard was my dog when I was a boy. He was killed one summer by a neighbor. He wondered onto his property and the old man shot him. I saw the whole thing.” Something dark flashed in his pale eyes, gone in an instant and he turned back to the window again, shutting his friend and brother out once again. 

The room stayed deathly silent for a long moment. “That would be rather traumatic.” John ventured, unsure on what he is expected to say. Sherlock snorted, in response to John or to irk his brother, John wasn’t sure, but resolutely kept his back to the room. 

John turned back to Mycroft, who was now behind the desk rooting thru a drawer. “Is that what all this is about, Mycroft? Kidnapping and lecturing us, to what? To make your brother relive a childhood trauma?”

Mycroft straightened up and John was taken aback. In all the situations that he had found himself facing Mycroft Holmes, he had never seen the older man look so solemn before. The older man’s face creased in an anguished way, like he was disappointment and saddened all that the same time. The only other time John had seen Mycroft this serious before was right before the Moriarty disaster. He had the same look in his eyes as the night that he confessed, in so many words, that he had betrayed his brother.

Mycroft walked from around the desk and handed John a single manila folder. John looked up at him, eyebrow raised and question, but Mycroft merely shook his head and poured himself another hardy drink. 

The file was weighty in John’s hands, stuffed to the brim with papers. The outside was completely clear. There was no writing on it, even on the tab. 

A sinking feeling tugged at the bottom of John’s stomach. He was certain that he had no business whatsoever reading whatever was in this file. He had no business being privy to whatever could melt Mycroft’s cold exterior. 

John glanced up to find Mycroft watching him, expectedly. He nodded again, encouraging John to open it. 

John flipped the file open, only to immediately closed it. He squeezed his eyes shut and wished that he could instantly forget what was depicted in the photos that were now seared in his mind. It took every ounce of control to not throw it back to Mycroft. 

He had seen gore before. That wasn’t the issue. He had been an army doctor for years. There were days where gore was all that he saw. The carnage in the photos was not what troubled him. It was the young man that was right in the center of it all. 

The young man with matted raven hair and unseeing blue eyes. The young man with full lips and hunks of his body missing. The young man that looked just like Sherlock Holmes laying on soft green country grass, with his limbs twisted in impossible directions and bullet holes marring his body.

John would never forgive Mycroft for this. He would never forgive him for tricking him to look at Sherlock’s dead mangled body again. He still saw Sherlock’s body laid out on the kerb in his dreams, bloody and broken. 

“John.”

John opened his eyes at Mycroft’s strange gentle tone and willed his hands to stop trembling. They threated to spill the offensive photos out onto the floor. Mycroft’s soft words alerted Sherlock as well, who had, of course, picked up on the room’s dramatic mood shift. 

“What is that?” Sherlock demanded. “What have you shown him?” 

Sherlock made a move to snatch the file from John’s hands but John pulled it out of reach. Sherlock took half a step back, confused, and John put up a placating hand. He took a deep breath, trying to gain control of himself again. 

“Just give me a minute, yeah?” He was embarrassed of the way his voice wavered but relieved when Sherlock took another step back. His eyes darted between John and his brother, clearly trying to deduce what had upset his blogger. 

John took advantage of the distraction and opened the file again. With a second look and a clearer mind, he could see that the young man in the photos was not Sherlock. He looked similar but this man’s hair lacked Sherlock’s unruly curls. The full lips had a scar underneath them and another on his dimpled chin. 

John skimmed over the page that was clipped to the other side of the file and his heart pounded with dread.

Sherrinford Holmes (MI6)  
1968-1992  
Codename: Redbeard

“Oh, Sherlock.” 

The words were swept out of John in a single breath that was knocked loose from him. The file was then ripped from his grasp and he let Sherlock have it that time. John rubbed a hand roughly across his face, feeling a million years old suddenly, and looked up Sherlock.

His eyes poured over the file with an undeniable spark of interest. John had seen the same look dozens of times when the detective stepped out onto a bloody crime scene. 

But John knew that exact moment Sherlock went from pictures to the text. It was as if someone pressed pause on the moment. Sherlock blinked hard and rapidly, and John was half afraid that he would burst an eye vessel. 

Then the color drained from his face and Sherlock went pale. Very pale. His knees buckled without warning and John jumped up just in time to guide Sherlock to the couch. He sat heavily but tightened his hold on the file when John attempted to take it back from him. 

“No.” He told John, his voice hoarse. “I’m reading.”

John felt his shock melt into a hot bubbling anger. Sherlock was as still as a stature. John hadn’t seen him this still since Magnussen, when he had realized that he was wrong about the Appledore files. A fierce urge to protect, to shield Sherlock from the contents of the file, overwhelmed John and he lashed out on the only other person he could. 

“You.” He bit out, twirling and pointing an accusing finger towards Mycroft, who was nursed his third drink since they had arrived. “You’re awful quiet all of a sudden. What is this?”

Mycroft ignored John and leaned forward towards his brother. “Sherlock,” He started, still using the same soft tone, but Sherlock flinched as if Mycroft had shouted at him. 

That was too much, John decided. He placed himself in front of Sherlock, blocking him from his brother’s view. He crossed his arms tightly across his chest and watched as Mycroft slowly mirrored him, scowling. 

“Redbeard. That was your brother?” John asked, his voice low and he knew that he edging along on something dangerous. “You let Sherlock think it was only dog for all those years. Why bring this up now?”

“We were only trying to protect him.” Mycroft started, taking a deep breath to launch into another long lecture but was stopped abruptly by John’s snort. 

“Sure you were.” John said bitterly. “By letting him believe a lie for years.” 

John wanted to move. He wanted to pace and burn the fury the he felt on behalf of Sherlock. A fury that burned hot in his belly. But He also didn’t want Sherlock exposed to Mycroft, so he planted his feet even firmer in the carpet. 

“Was there even a dog?”

“Yes.” Mycroft answered, arms still crossed but watching his brother instead of John. “He was killed in the confusion.” 

“This is impossible.” Sherlock said in a small voice, disbelief hanging on to his words. He refused to make anyone’s eyes, intensely staring at the file, and continued speaking. “Sherrinford was still born. Mother had told me that.” 

“No, Sherlock.” Mycroft shook his head sadly. “You said that.” 

It was the sharp intake of breath behind him that finally set John fully off. “Yes, Sherlock. You said that and your whole family let you believe it.” 

He let his feet move him and paced the whole length of the room. If Sherlock couldn’t get angry at the moment, then John would be angry enough for the both of them.

“John.”

“No.” John snapped at Mycroft’s warning tone. “What really happened that day?” He pointed at Sherlock who was still frozen in place, still pouring over the file. “He deserves to know. He deserves to hear it from you.” 

Mycroft stood gingerly, as if his joints were protesting being in one spot for so long. He sat at the desk chair and stayed silent for so long that John actually made the decision to collect Sherlock and leave when he finally spoke. 

“Sherrinford was our oldest brother. He was a MI6 agent. He was very good at his job. One year, we all went to our house in the country for holiday.” Mycroft paused, covering his eyes with hand and John felt the tinniest bit of sympathy cut thru his anger. 

“We were there barely a week when it happened. There had been a leak somewhere in the system. About a dozen agents were comprised and Sherrinford was one of them. We were all outside. Sherlock had wanted to play pirates.” Sherlock winced from his spot of the couch. “It was just one assassin but he was bloody and brutal, and didn’t care if we were witnessing it or not. Sherlock was only seven years old.” 

John felt ill and Sherlock looked worse. He had finally tore his eyes from the file and instead bore them into his brother. His face was completely closed off. The only indication that he was affected was the troublingly ashy tone that his skin had taken on and the way his curled fist trembled against his pant leg. 

Mycroft passed another hand across his face and started to look quite ill himself. “You were so young, Sherlock. You were just a child. You couldn’t cope with what had happened. You didn’t speak for weeks. When you finally did,” He swallowed heavily. “You were convinced that something very different had happened. That the neighbor had shot Redbeard and that Sherrinford had died before you were even born.” 

Sherlock only blinked and looked back to the file. John continued being upset for them both. 

“And everyone went along with that? Thought it was a perfectly OK thing to do?” 

If looks could kill, John would be dead from Mycroft’s glare. “Our parents made that decision. They thought it was for the best, to save him heartache.” 

John scoffed. “Ah, yes.” He exclaimed loudly. “That worked out wonderfully. Look at him. Got away scot free. None of those pesky feelings for him!” 

He jabbed a finger in Mycroft’s direction. “Do you remember what you said to me the second time that he met? Right after the cabbie? ‘Imagine the Christmas dinners’. You said. Well now I can! ‘Don’t forget, little Timmy. Cousin Sherlock thinks that his oldest brother died as a baby and also that it was his dog who was brutally murdered in front of him, not his brother!’”

“John,” Sherlock said quietly, so faintly that John could barely hear him over the roaring in his ears.

“At least with Henry Knight, no one else close to him knew the truth. No one, expect for Franklin, but that’s beside the point. He-“  
John stopped suddenly when things aligned themselves in his head. He distantly wondered if this was how Sherlock felt when sudden deductions and insight came to. 

Of course. It was obvious, as Sherlock would say. John looked over in time to catch Sherlock let out a low sigh and his eyes slip shut, making the connection just a half second after John had.

“Henry Knight,” John heard himself saying in a voice so threating he almost didn’t recognize it as his own. “Did you send him to us?” 

Mycroft needed only a second to pull together a careful neutral mask and leaned back in the chair. It amazed John how the man could transition from cold and calculating, to open and sorrowful, then back to ice again in this short time span. He had seen Sherlock pull the same trick and wondered if it was just a Holmes trick. He wondered if Sherrinford had had the same ability. 

“Henry Knight was already on the path to finding answers. I merely nudged him in your direction.” John opened his mouth to shout again but Mycroft kept speaking. “I had hoped that helping Mr. Knight would help dislodge your own memories, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock stared at his brother for a long moment. He stayed still for so that John started to worry that he had even stopped breathing. The trance was finally broken with a shuddering breath and Sherlock closing the file.

“I want to go home, John.” He said, eerily calm, already standing and heading towards the thick doors.

John blinked. “Yeah, of course.” He started to follow when they were both stopped by Mycroft.

“Sherlock. May I have the file back?” 

Sherlock paused for only a second. “No.” He replied and strode out the door into the lobby, not even turning to reply. 

They made it through the silent building and outside when Sherlock stumbled. His foot caught the bottom step and he tripped onto the kerb, long limbs flaying. He did just catch himself and John helped ease him onto the concrete steps. 

He was still much too pale, John decided. He tried to check his pulse but was swatted away by a thin hand. 

“Stop fussing.” Sherlock snapped and John was relieved to hear part of his friend’s usual bite. “I’m fine. Let’s just go home.” 

If John had looked no further, he could be convince himself and the whole world that Sherlock Holmes was perfectly fine. That this news was no more tragic to the man then if he had heard that the store was out of crisps. That he had already brushed off any offending emotions and was ready to challenge the world once more. 

But John Watson knew Sherlock. John observed the lines that had yet to leave Sherlock’s forehead. The weary set in his eyes. The tone of his voice that had just enough emotion behind it to be considered a plea. A plea to go home. It cut John to the quick and frustration surged through him once more. 

“Yeah, we’re go. I just,” He stood and wiped his hands on his pants. “I need to do something before we leave.” 

Sherlock looked up at him, questioning, and John shook his head. “I’ll just be a moment.” Then added more forcefully, “Will you wait for me? Will you actually wait and not go running off without me?”

Sherlock frowned but gathered his coat tighter around himself and the file and nodded. 

“Thank you.” 

John jogged back up the steps and into the building. He marched past the workers that attempted to flag him down and walked right back into Mycroft’s office. Not-Anthea was there, perched on the edge of the desk. She caught John’s eye then looked away quickly, almost guiltily. 

The older man’s head snapped up from where it was cradled in his hands. He looked very old, possibly even more tired than his little brother out on the steps outside. 

“John, I-“Mycroft started but is silence by John’s raised hand.

“No.” John said, striding up to the desk the older man sat behind. “It’s my turn now. This is Moriarty all over again. You make a mistake and it’s up to me to take care of Sherlock. And I will. Every single time. Never doubt that for a second. But one day it’s going to catch up to you, Mycroft Holmes. One day you’re going to make a mistake with him and won’t be around to see how it ends. I will be though. I’ll be there to pick up the pieces and I’ll take care of him for you. Again.”

He didn’t wait to see Mycroft’s reaction. He didn’t wait to hear what Mycroft had to say. He walked out and threw the door shut behind him. Then he did what he had wanted to since this mess had started, collected Sherlock and went home. 

John didn’t see Sherlock properly again after that for three days. His bedroom room stayed closed up tight and the man only emerged for short spurts of time for only what he deemed to be absolute necessary. 

Lestrade called on the second day of isolation about a case but graciously accepted the flimsy excuse that Sherlock was ill. Molly called on the third day asking if the thumbs were still needed. John had asked the bedroom door but received no response. The flat stayed drenched in an uneasy silence. John found himself missing the wailings of an abused violin or angry mutterings to the skull on the mantel. 

On the fourth day, John was convinced that Sherlock would not rejoin the rest of the living world unless prompted or forced. To his surprise, he found that the door opened. It was cracked open only a sliver but still seemed like an open invitation. 

John honestly wasn’t sure what he would find when he eased the door open the rest of the way. He half expected the room to be destroyed, wrecked in an episode of frustration. Or Sherlock’s body on the road to decaying because John was certain that he hadn’t eaten in days. 

John found neither. 

Sherlock looked exhausted like he hadn’t slept any in the past four days but, to John’s relief, still alive. He tilted his head towards the door, silently acknowledging John’s presence but not ordering him out. John leaned in the doorway, not minding the silence, and watched the man before him.

Sherlock sat on the bed, long legs sprawled out with the file’s contents spread between them. Patches of stubble lined Sherlock’s jaw and he absently scratched at it as he poked at the papers. The dark smudges underneath his eyes were so dark they seemed painted onto his pale skin.

All of the papers seemed to be organized in some way that John couldn’t exactly decipher. The photos of Sherrinford body were stacked in one pile. The most gruesome on top, it seemed. Photos of the scene sat on another spot of the bed. John couldn’t make heads or tails of the rest. The remaining papers seemed to be strung from one end of the bed to the other.

Sherlock would pick up a photo and bring it close his face, squinting at it as if it held the universe’s secrets, then let it fall back on the mattress with a huff. Then he repeated the process with the next photo. This kept on for several minutes before Sherlock stopped and roughly raked his hand thru his tangled curls. 

“Mrs. Hudson sent up some biscuits, if you’re interested.” John said eventually and Sherlock sent a weak glare his way, as if the offer of food offended him. 

He still hadn’t been kicked out yet so John edged his way from the doorway and settled on the edge of the bed. “Have you found what you’ve been looking for?”

John didn’t receive a verbal answer from Sherlock as much as another rough tug at his hair and a mumble.

“What?” John asked, leaning forward in an effort to catch the rest the words.

“I said I can’t remember, John!” Sherlock shouted and swept the papers off the bed. The papers and photos flew around the floor, caught underfoot in Sherlock’s sudden manic pacing. 

He gestured wildly at the mess he had just created. “I don’t remember any of it, John!” He roughly tapped a finger to his forehead. “The whole thing, gone! Deleted! There’s not a damned thing left about it! Years of data erased!”

He ends his tirade with a swift kick to the wardrobe and promptly wilted, as if the tantrum drained all of his fight. He stood with his hands on his hips and stared down at the fallen photos. 

“I remember nothing of Sherrinford.” He spoke again, quieter. “All that’s there is Redbeard.” His lip curled up into a sudden sneer. “The dog, mind you, not the code name. I can’t believe I was sentimental enough to name a dog after my brother’s code name.” 

John’s heart ached for his friend as he watched Sherlock nudge the photos around with his feet, soiling them with toe prints. “You were just a kid, Sherlock. Almost every little boy looks up to their big brothers.” He sent a small grin up to Sherlock, trying to ease the tension that rolled off of him in waves. “Even the clever ones.” 

Sherlock acknowledged the effort with a small nod but stayed planted in his spot. “I just,” He hesitated, taking in an unsteady breath. “Henry remembered. I have all the facts, all the data. It’s all right here in front of me but I can’t remember.” 

John leaned back on the bed and thought for a moment. “You know, Sherlock.” He finally said. “Maybe it’s not a bad thing that you can’t remember.” 

In another situation, it would have been comical the way Sherlock’s eyebrows flew up into his hair. “Really now?” He drawled, giving John an incredulous look. “That’s certainly a far cry from your stance a few days ago.” 

“No, it’s not.” John shot back. “I still think that they should have told you the truth a long time ago. But if you had to be stuck with one memory for the rest of your life, what would be better? Your dog dying? Or this?” He asked, giving the gory photos a significant look

Sherlock looked as if he was actually considering Johns words. His eyes bore into the scene laid out in front of on the floor and he blinked slowly. 

“In Dartmoor,” He began, hesitate again and unsure of himself. “The last night we were there, I had a dream. I was at the beach that our parents took us to one summer when we were young. I was playing in the sand. Mycroft was there but there was an older boy with us too.” Sherlock shook his head. “I thought it had been only a dream, but maybe it was something more.”

“A repressed memory, maybe?”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise and seemed to move on, gesturing vaguely at the mess on the floor. “Perhaps you’re right…about all of that.”

“Of course I’m right.” John said. He kept his tone light as if Sherlock hadn’t just had a minor breakdown. The other man was clearly out of his element and John decided the best course of action was removing him from the situation at hand. He gently herded Sherlock away from the pile of forgotten memories and led him towards the bathroom. 

“Why don’t you take a bath?”

Sherlock tossed John an irked look over his shoulder but still allowed himself to be lead, a true testament of how badly he was feeling. “What’s a bath going to do?”

“Make you smell better. You’ve been cooped up for days and you stink.” John teased but still gave the final gentle push that propelled Sherlock the final step into the room and shut the door behind him. “Take a bath and I’ll make tea.”

He heard a muffled snort behind the door but the unmistakable sound of running water shortly after. Surprised that Sherlock actually took direction, but not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth, John made his way back to Sherlock’s bedroom. 

He went to cleaning up the mess that the file had become. He quickly gathered the fallen documents and pictures, turning each photo around before placing them back in the file. If John ever saw them again, it would be too soon. He laid the file on the dresser then, on a second thought, pushed it to the very back. As if the file’s physical location would help Sherlock forget about the contents.

By the time John wondered into the kitchen and turned on the kettle, the water has stopped running and he caught a glimpse of a towel clad Sherlock making his way back to this bedroom.

“That was quick.” John threw over his shoulder, only to receive a grunt and a closed door in reply. He sighed, reminded himself about the gift horse, and turned to walk into the living room only to find Mycroft Holmes in the doorway watching him.

John couldn’t be bothered to be embarrassed by the way he nearly jumped out his skin and swore. Instead he leaned over the kitchen counter and tried to catch his breath. 

“I’m going to get you and your brother bloody bells. The pair of you are like bloody cats.” He muttered a bit breathlessly. Mycroft continued to look unimpressed as John straightened up and tried to gather his remaining dignity. “How did you even get in here?” 

“Your landlady let me in.” Mycroft replied as if it was a perfectly fine excuse to traipse uninvited in people’s flats. 

“Alright,” John said, familiar anger starting to boil again. “Better question. Why are you here?” 

Mycroft shifted, setting his shoulders back a little more. The grip on his umbrella tightened. “I was hoping to speak to Sherlock. Is he here?”

John barely resisted rolling his eyes. “Yeah, he’s here. You already know that though, or else you wouldn’t be here. But I’m not sure if he wants to speak to you.” 

John knew that he couldn't successfully hide his protective instinct. He had a horrible tell. It was one that kept getting him into trouble, like almost getting shot at pool all those years ago.  
Logically, John knew that the instinct did little good. Sherlock was more than capable of handling his meddling big brother or anyone else on his own. He had been doing it long before met John. Yet, there John stood, toe to toe with Mycroft Holmes, desperately trying to protect Sherlock. To shield him on his behalf. 

Mycroft, for his part, did not look particular impressed with John and merely glanced over the shorter man’s shoulder. “Let’s let him decide, shall we?”

John turned saw Sherlock standing by the refrigerator, clothed, clean shaven, and hair damp, looking as closed off as he had been on Mycroft’s couch. The brothers said nothing for a long, only staring at the other. They seemed to be having their own private conversation communicated by subtle expressions, the odd quirked eyebrow or tilted head, which John is clearly not invited to. 

But John still stood firmly planted in the kitchen, because he’d be dammed if he was going to allow Mycroft kicked out of his own flat. Just as John was convinced that they’d spend hours just standing around staring at each other, Sherlock moved towards the stove and turned off the kettle.

“I hope you didn’t come here expecting to gobble up Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits.” Sherlock said, dryly, “I’ve already eaten them. I had a horrid feeling that you and your appetite would show up here today.” He pushed past his brother and removed the long black coat and blue scarf from the back of the door. 

“John, are you coming?” He called out, already half way down the stairs. “I believe we have thumbs to collect.” 

John looked at Mycroft, who looked considerably less confused then how John felt and more pleased. Or annoyed. Perhaps it was a mix of both, John finally decided as he shrugged at the older man and collected his own jacket.

“I assume you can show yourself out.” 

John caught up with Sherlock at the front door. “That’s it, then?” He asked, watching as Sherlock shrugged on the heavy coat and tied the scarf around his pale neck. 

Sherlock’s gaze flickered up the stairs briefly before he carelessly shrugged a shoulder. “It takes too much energy to fight with the fat git. What’s done is done and none of us can change it now.”

John couldn’t argue with that. He was just thankfully that things seemed to be falling back into their version of normal; Pestering Mycroft and collecting body parts from Molly. He was sliding on his own jacket when he noticed Sherlock watching him, a thoughtful expression on his face. 

“What?” 

Sherlock’s lips twisted up into a brief smile but he shook his head. “Nothing.” His hand went out to the door knob and started turn but hesitated at the last moment. “Just, thank you.”

John felt himself returning the smile, feeling flattered by the sudden thanks. “Sure, but for what?” 

“For always following me.” 

When they returned that afternoon with Chinese take away and thumbs, a photo sat on the kitchen table. It was a far cry from the gory photos that been in the flat the past four days. Sherlock picked it up and examined it. He said nothing but pocketed it with a small smile. 

John saw the photo days later. It sat in a frame on the mantel above the fire place, looking as if it had always belonged there.

It was a photo of three boys at the beach. The youngest boy’s wild curls are ruffled by the wind. His lip bit with concentration, but the corners turned up into a pleased smile, as he constructed a tower on a sand castle. The middle boy’s pale skin is burnt by the sun, ginger hair catching the sunlight. His baby fat is on display and he has a cheeky grin as he worked on a tower opposite of the younger boy’s. The oldest boy is stretched out, leaning over the moat, placing a sea shell on the youngest tower. His smile is the biggest of the three.


End file.
